Mary and I were childhood friends, our second childhood, vaguely recalling that we'd once had a first. We never wanted to be apart, much like twins in many ways. Our own private language. Shared experiences from the womb - the universe where we'd first been born and shared all those billions of years of our physical lives. Closer than the closest of twins, but not brother and sister. We were a bonded pair, who it was assumed would remain together forever as a mated pair.
We played as children. We were innocent, learning about our new world, still too young to understand the meaning of 'mated pair.'
Nothing we brought from our earlier existence had meaning, except to know it was something we'd shared. We talked about phantom memories in our shared twin language. But without relevance to our current existence, we had no context for them to solidify in a recognizable form, only that they were part of the bond none around us could comprehend or share.
As we grew older, we attended school to study and learn how to get along with others. Some better than others. Some not at all. Some were mean and didn't like me. We were expected to learn how to get along, nonetheless. I had fights if I was picked on, or in rare instances that anyone picked on Mary. I was always in trouble. I tried not to start fights, even when the others were mean and I didn't like them. I didn't like being in trouble.
School progressed as we matured. I was not the best of students. Mary did much better. In most ways, Mary was more like the others. I was nothing like the others. I had the intuition this was not a new experience. I would have had more difficulty getting along with others, except that Mary was my friend and most of our schoolmates liked Mary. Even the mean ones liked her. But Mary was pretty.
I was weird. The others told me so. The teachers told them not to call me names, even though they thought I was strange too. Mary told me I wasn't weird. I was amazing.
I didn't think I was amazing. I agreed with the others and thought I was weird. My Mother told me I was not weird. But she'd always said such things. She was my Mother. My Father told me he was weird too. He was still weird, and I shouldn't worry about it. But He always said such things, too. He was my Father. I felt weird. I was not like the others. What else could I be other than weird?
In school, I was never interested in what they taught. I liked to figure things out on my own. Rather than pay attention in class, I daydreamed about things I was told we'd get to when we were ready. I was ready; it was not my fault the others were too slow. I was arrogant. That's what my teachers told me. I didn't like them any more than my classmates. They didn't like me either.
When my higher education began, the others no longer felt I was quite so weird. Still different, but different in a better way. I still thought I was weird, but I worried about it less. I was seeking answers no one else had ever found. To do things no one else had ever done. Some of my teachers began to agree with Mary. I was different, yes, weird, maybe, but who cared? I was amazing. It felt good. Much better than arrogant or weird.
Mary wanted two things, to be with me and to be a mother.
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The Words - An Autobiography
Ciencia Ficción"What if God was one of us?" Credit to Eric Bazzilion, and thanks to Joan Osborne for singing his brain-rattling words. Much earlier, my mother promised that if I applied myself, I could be whatever I wanted when I grew up. Then, from somewhere, I r...
